


"Fine Dining"

by matrixrefugee



Category: Dresden Files - Butcher
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrixrefugee/pseuds/matrixrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas tries to help a young wizard learn some kitchen magic</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Fine Dining"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yamikonumber7](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yamikonumber7).



Title: "Fine Dining"  
Author: "Matrix Refugee"  
Rating: PG (mild language)  
Character(s): Harry Dresden, Thomas Raith  
Genre: Gen, humor  
Word Count: 932  
Comments: Written for [](http://yamikonumber7.livejournal.com/profile)[**yamikonumber7**](http://yamikonumber7.livejournal.com/) as part of the Lightning Round at [](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/profile)[**help_haiti**](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti/), with "cooking lesson" as the prompt du jour. Takes place probably sometime before or after "Dead Beat".  
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files series does not belong to me, I'm just playing in the universe and shying snowballs at Jim Butcher's fanfic-phobic rules-lawyers.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------

I couldn't really blame my brother Thomas for getting bored with my usual cuisine out of a can or box alternating with take-out from various fast food joints and Chinese restaurants. The brownies kept the cupboards and the refrigerator well-stocked -- if you could ignore the Froot Loop incident -- but I'm not what anyone would call a chef, not even a short-order cook. Thomas was, no doubt, used to fine dining at the best restaurants in Chicago or wherever the White Court jet-setted off to, or to having equally fancy fixings at the Chateau Raith, courtesy of the staff chef. Thus, after a few weeks of staying with me, it came as no surprise that Thomas came to me with a request for a change in the menu.

Said request coming in the form of two bags of groceries plunked on the counter as I was making myself a sandwich and the statement, "Harry, as part of my share in taking care of the apartment, I'm giving you a cooking lesson."

"Thomas, I can cook. I used to grill steaks all the time when I lived with Ebeneezer and he taught me how to cook over an open fire," I said, slapping a half-dozen slices of deli ham onto three slices of American cheese laid over two slices of rye slathered with mustard.

"Grilling is the next evolutionary baby-step up from hacking a chunk off a woolly mammoth carcass with a flint knife and tossing it onto an open campfire in front of a cave mouth," Thomas said, his eye on my plate. "Cooking is for the more evolved, and I'd say you and I qualify as being more evolved than the average Joe Sandwich-Slapper."

"I got paperwork to file for my PI's license," I said, grasping for an excuse, any excuse, no matter how lame.

Thomas rolled his eyes as he started taking fresh veggies and a package of chicken breasts out of the bags and ranged them on the counter. "Paperwork can keep. Your nutritional needs and your civilization skills need to be supplemented. Besides, if you and Karrin ever get serious, it would be great if you could treat her to a nice meal that you cooked yourself. Women like that in a man."

"Murphy and I have a good professional relationship," I said, coolly. "I doubt it will ever become more than that."

"You never know what can develop over time," he said, taking out some red-capped bottles of herbs and spices. He eyed my wood-burning range thoughtfully for a moment, and for a fleeting instant, I hoped that alone would put the brakes on his crash course in cuisine, but he started fishing around under the sink for the handful of pans I kept there.

He started off with the basics of pounding the chicken breasts before marinating them in a mixture of lemon juice and soy sauce. Beating the juice out of the meat didn't make a whole lot of sense to me and I had a few smart and snappy words about how civilized this technique really was compared to mammoth flambe, till he told me it made it easier for the chicken to absorb the marinade. Then while the chicken stewed in a dish in the back of my ice box, he started making a tossed salad, which I pretty much had the basics of, though he insisted on showing me how to chop the cucumber slices paper-thin without cutting off my fingertips. Next came the tricky part as we figured out the right temperature to bake the chicken, which meant having to run out for some extra firewood. We finally managed to maneuver the chicken breasts, now covered in a blend of pepper and celery salt and some other weirdly named condiment, into a glass dish and then into the piping hot oven.

As luck would have it, the phone started ringing. "Go on and get it, this will take about ten minutes for those to cook, before you have to turn them over," he said.

I went to answer the phone, finding Billy the Werewolf was on the line.

"We spotted something weird over by the University," he said, slightly out of breath. "Kirby's convinced it's a chupacabra, but I don't think it had enough spines. Anyway, it's eaten a few of our neighbors' cats and it went after Andi's dog just now. We tried to chase it, but it disappeared into the sewer."

"Not likely anyway, they usually don't come this far north, though I heard one was seen running through Central Park not too long back," I said.

I heard something like a muffled gun shot coming from the stove. Expecting anything, I dropped the phone and grabbing my blasting rod, I ran to the kitchen. For all I knew a stray -- and angry -- Zao Shen, a Chinese stove spirit, had wandered in and decided to cause trouble.

Thomas was one step ahead of me, grabbing open the door to the oven with his bare hand. He cursed as he jumped back, dropping the door open with a clatter and jamming his burned hand under the faucet. I had the presence of mind to grab a potholder before I reached into the small cloud of smoke that billowed out. I backed away quickly when I felt the hard edges of shattered glass through the pad of the potholder.

"Hell's Bells, we must have had the fire too hot," I said, looking up at Thomas and trying to keep a small smirk of triumph from quirking one corner of my mouth.

"Maybe I should just let you stick to mixing potions, Mr. Wizard," Thomas said, with a wry laugh.


End file.
